


Today

by True_Babylonian



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29073141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/True_Babylonian/pseuds/True_Babylonian
Summary: Yesterday there were quarrels with homophobic parents. Bashed heads and bloody scarves. Tragic partings to the music of a fucking violin and political intrigues with agitprop and playing detectives against smug bastards.Tomorrow we will face complete bankruptcy and the loss of loved ones. Armed struggle in pink T-shirts and with shaved heads. Chemotherapy and "fucking chicken soup". Big ambitions and new partings.Next... I honestly don't even want to think about what will happen next.And I will not.
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Today

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Сегодня](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/751605) by True Babylonian. 



> A friend watched the fourth season and wrote about one of the episodes, what cute fools they are, how fun it is to watch them when they just talk, laugh, tease each other, and so on.
> 
> And I wrote to her something like, yes, they are very funny and touching when they are doing well.  
> So I wanted to write about boys when everything is fine with them.  
> Even if only today.
> 
> _______________________________  
> There is absolutely no time for fanfiction now, but I realized that if I don't write at least a drabble, I will finally get moldy without the boys.  
> Therefore, here. 
> 
> Enjoy reading! :)

Yesterday there were quarrels with homophobic parents. Bashed heads and bloody scarves. Tragic partings to the music of a fucking violin and political intrigues with agitprop and playing detectives against smug bastards.

Tomorrow we will face complete bankruptcy and the loss of loved ones. Armed struggle in pink T-shirts and with shaved heads. Chemotherapy and "fucking chicken soup". Big ambitions and new partings.

Next... I honestly don't even want to think about what will happen next.

And I will not. 

I look around, smiling slightly at the amusement going on. The streets of Gayopolis are again full of people dancing, hugging, waving rainbow flags. Bengal lights are sparkling everywhere, laughter and "Hurray!" are heard, multiplied by hundreds of voices.

I turn to you and for the tenth... for the thousandth time I am amazed at how beautiful you are, how alive you are. How strong you are. Truly brave, ready to defend your beliefs and principles and sacrifice what you have for this. I look at you and go crazy with my own thoughts and feelings.

Fuck, I love you. _I really love you._

You turn to me and catch me red-handed, probably noticing my gaze of a devoted puppy. Thanks God for not letting go a tear. Trying to reduce the degree of melodrama, I laugh it off stupidly, I say nonsense about hypnosis and other meaningless shit. And you readily play along with me, without showing that you noticed my weakness... When did you, little twat, manage to become so smart, huh?

We kiss, launching our own, no less bright and mesmerizing fireworks, I feel your smile with my lips and think that, Jesus Christ, this is really the most important thing!

No, I'm a realist. And tomorrow I will wake up with the thought that I was left without work, without many things dear to me, with a huge loan, which will have to be repaid only by selling an apartment, a car, and maybe kidneys.

"Looks like I lost everything."

Your "No, not everything", said as if not seriously, so as not to embarrass me even more, treacherously and desperately beats inside me like a second heart and finally blows my head off.

You're right, you little twat. The most important thing remained with me.

A long time ago Lindsay said something like that to me. I got really freaked out about the loft being robbed (well, let's be honest, you really screwed up) and kicked you the fuck out. And then, for a lot of hours in a row, I made a list of my lost possessions, almost crying inside. A long list of my personal treasures, on which an angry Lindsay wrote 'Justin.' A thing of incredible value, existing in a single copy. 

I'm not going to lie, at the time her statement seemed pathetic, suitable only for snotty novels or soap operas. Now... now I agree with her. Completly.

Now, after walking with you into the empty and dark space of the loft, I look around and realize that the lack of exquisite furniture, fashionable devices, expensive equipment, and even the portrait of a naked man that has become almost close to me does not upset me as much as before. To be honest, I only look at you at all. The way you unwrap your foolishly long scarf, talking about Stockwell and the cold weather and your rumbling stomach. The way you take off your jacket and straighten your long hair, which I like to bury my fingers in. The way you finally turn around and ask me why I'm standing in the doorway.

_Because I love you._

Because I'm afraid to come closer and touch you. Because I'm just terrified of these feelings, of these thoughts, of my addiction. I'm genuinely, really trying my best to be upset about losing a nice table, a fluffy carpet, a brand-new TV, a job, after all… Well, it doesn't work.

In this large apartment, I seem to have everything I need. My personal, bright Sun. And a bed where I can enjoy its warmth and light again and again.

I think that's what I'm going to do now, before I blurt out some shameful lesbian bullshit, and about restoring my sanity and dignity I'll think tomorrow.

Silently, without answering your questions, I move closer and carefully take such a amazingly beautiful face in my hands. And I kiss. As gently, as slowly, as I can. It's terribly difficult for me. After all, any touch to you turns me on in a split second. I just can't be calm around you, I can't pull myself together. I don't have the slightest chance to show off the vaunted endurance of the Main Stud of Liberty Avenue.

I want to be inside you. As soon as possible. As deep as possible. I can't help but be pleased with the fact that in this issue we always have a total synch and mutual understanding.

We rip each other's clothes off at a speed worthy of a circus performance, and the bed, thanks to the lack of other furniture, is reached in record time. My hands slide over your neck, shoulders, chest, a little hurriedly, chaotically, trying not to leave a single millimeter without attention. I need you. I need you completely.

I need your strong, flexible body, arching under me, pressing closer to me. I need your lips, trembling, reddish from my unwitting rudeness, but still soft, yielding, sweet. I need your voice. A hot whisper at the base of the neck, so ticklish and tender, long moans that give almost the same pleasure as sex itself. I need your warmth, your heat, as I go deeper into you, freezing, enjoying the tightness and the sense of completion. I need your eyes on me. Floating, as if sleepy, gliding over my face, so begging, calling. _Loving_.

"Brian!"

I need you, Justin. Fuck. I only need you.

I don't know if I'll ever admit it out loud. I don't know if I'll have the courage to tell you what you're still waiting for, despite your humility and acceptance of Kinney's "fucking nature." I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to prove my feelings to you.

Fuck, I don't even know if this obsession, this sensual revelation, will not pass with the dawn of a new day, without a trace disappearing into the hustle, problems, mistakes and pain of this difficult, incomprehensible life.

Just yesterday, there was a theft of Armani, Gucci and a juicer from Philippe Starck. The presentation of the crown by Elizabeth I, under the hem of whom the device is slightly smaller than mine. Dirty parties with go-go boys, heavy drugs and un-baby swings. Blonde, skinny hustlers on your side of the bed.

Tomorrow Gay Hollywood and Kinnetic with two N's are waiting for us. A Jewish ensemble in a roadside canteen, broken collarbones and trampled pride. Great deals and empty drawers for socks. The conquest of 'Babylon', which, like its distant ancestor, will surely be destroyed.

And then...

I give one last, deep push, shouting your name right into your mouth, which is open in a silent scream. We don't cum together very often, but today the magic is not only on the streets of Gayopolis, but also here, between us.

I raise myself up on my elbows, still pressed against your trembling, perspiring body. Still staying in you. I look into your half-closed eyes, muddy with tears of pleasure. I'd like to laugh at your snotty face, but I'm not sure I'm myself not crying right now. I stroke your reddening cheekbones, run my fingers through your soft, sun-soaked hair. And I look. I stare at you, trying to keep in my memory every detail, every little thing.

I'm not at all sure I want to remember everything that happened yesterday. I have absolutely no idea what will happen to us tomorrow. Fuck, who knows? But it doesn't matter. It does not matter whether our destinies will be intertwined in one, linking us firmly and securely, or they will finally part, leaving only memories and a slight bitterness in a smile.

It doesn't make any difference, because…

Justin, I promise you, whatever is waiting for us there, around the next crossroad, around the sharp turn, behind the sudden precipice, I will always remember. I will leave the two of us in this 'today'... _forever_.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be glad to receive your comments! :)


End file.
